


Legacy

by paradiamond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dual Timeline, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir makes two journeys to Dale in his lifetime, the city that inspired his imagination as a child and final resting place of Smaug, in order to deal with two different Kings. Both challenge him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Third Age, in the Year 3020. 

The northern winds sting Faramir’s face as he urges his horse up the hill, his companions steady beside him. The majority of them are fairly young, and the excitement of a journey nearly completed clings to them. Luckily they have had no accidents on their journey. _So far._ Faramir reminds himself. It is not over yet, and despite the relative safety the of the roads since the end of the great war, it still pays to be careful.

“There!” One of them yells, already at the top of the hill. “I can see the city!” 

Faramir smiles and thanks the boy as he crests the hill as well, looking out over the landscape. Though he has an idea of what to expect, his breath still catches in his throat in spite of himself. As a child, Faramir had always been obsessed with faraway lands and fantastic beasts and he must admit to some leftover fascination. From wizards, to fairy stories, to real histories of epic creatures- and especially of the fire drakes from the north. From Glaurung to Scatha the Worm, he used to imagine being the first man to ever befriend a dragon. 

Not to tame one, because everyone knows that a dragon isn’t some beast to be broken. They are fire and death, and they are intelligent in their own right. Faramir was going to be the first to have a dragon companion that would let him climb up and _fly_. Of course, it would be one of the winged type, a child of the last great dragons that would come down from the Northern Waste. Faramir was going to meet him in the wilderness- maybe he’d be injured- and they would form a partnership worthy of songs. The Champions of Gondor. This was obviously a ridiculous notion for future solider, and second in line for the Stewardship at that, but more or less appropriate for a boy of ten. 

Faramir looks out at Dale, and remembers the day his father caught him making a dragon kite, remembers how it looked burning to ash in the hearth. A fitting, if ironic, end for a dragon if you ask him. Faramir smiles to himself as he sets his horse on a course down the great hill, bordering an even greater mountain. He had left Gimli and Legolas at the borders of Mirkwood to see Legolas' father, the King of the Forest, while Faramir continued on to attend to the King of Dale on behalf of his own King Elessar. 

Absently, as they make their way to the gates of the city, he wonders what his father would say of him thinking of his childish exploits while on official business for the King, apart from being enraged at the existence of that King, of course. Faramir stops the train of thought before he begins to truly think ill of the dead, and looks to the sky instead, thinking of a dragon flying through the air as it had done long ago.

If he’s honest, it’s a fascination he never really let go of, but rather got better at hiding. Only to Boromir would he admit his continued interest, for it was only ever his brother who seemed to understand him before Eowyn came into his life. And to confess such a childish passion to his intended would mean a good deal of teasing, he thinks as he reigns in his horse at the foot of the wooden gates of the damaged city. No place in middle earth had escaped the war totally unscathed, but the settlements of the north had weathered a storm nearly as bad as had raged in the south, and it showed. 

A man sporting armor and a serious face comes out to greet him. “Well met, Lord Faramir of Gondor, and welcome to Dale.”

One of his attendants casts him a side eyed glance, but Faramir does not bother to tell their guide that he’s technically _Prince_ Faramir of _Ithilien,_ because it is frankly irrelevant and he never cared for titles anyway. He dismounts, making note of the man’s position from the markings on his cuffs. 

“Thank you. Greetings to you as well, Captain...”

“Merrick, my lord.”

Faramir nods, allowing his horse to be led away by a stable boy and following Captain Merrick through the gate, which was now not more than a wooden plank crudely fastened to the wall. They head into the city together, and he glances around at the ruined buildings, trying to reconcile this cracked and burned out shell with the bustling of the prosperous city he had visited as a younger man. The sight provokes the same useless anger in him that he had lived with for years. The desire to rage against the evil that caused this coupled with the sadness for the people that endured it. 

“How fares the rebuild effort?” he asks, in part to be polite and in part because he is truly curious to know. Though he had only been to the city once, Dale holds a place in his heart. 

Merrick glances over at him, and Faramir sees an astuteness in his eyes. “Well enough. It is a slow process, but King Bard is a supportive and fair leader, as is our ally Thorin Stonehelm.”

“I see. I was very sorry to hear of King Brand’s death. I met him once many years ago. He seemed...an honorable man,” Faramir says, attempting to be tactful. In truth, he still isn’t sure what he thought of the King. Honorable yes, but hard and belligerent as well. 

Merrick nods, seeming to indicate understanding of his mixed feelings. “He was. He defended us to the bitter end, and the dwarf King Dain Ironfoot himself lost his life protecting his body when he fell.”

Faramir nods. He had heard the tale already. “Relations between Dale and Erebor remain strong then?” 

Merrick glances in the direction of the mountain. “Strong enough, for two kingdoms trying to rebuild after war.” 

“Repairs seem to be coming along nicely, for so soon after the end of the war. The men of the north are a hardy people.”

Merrick lets out a short laugh, but looks pleased. “Perhaps a tad bit more than our brothers in the south, but not so much as the Dwarves.” He glances up towards the lonely mountain. “Strong folk, they are.”

Faramir nods in agreement. Though he can’t really speak to the qualities of dwarves as a group, he had gotten to know Gimli well in the weeks and months after the war and it is certainly true of him.

As Merrick leads him through the streets towards the King’s residence, Faramir takes the opportunity to observe the people of Dale, noticing at once their unbowed spirit, their resolute strength in the rebuilding of their home. _Aragorn was right,_ Faramir thinks, watching a man young enough to still be considered a child help a woman old enough to be his grandmother put up a thatch roof and then sit to laugh with her, their legs swinging over the open air. 

_Dale will be a strong ally for the reunited kingdom indeed._

***

TA 2999

“Are you sure about this brother?” Boromir asks him for the third time, sitting across from him on a barrel in the stables. Faramir shoots him a dark look and doesn’t bother to point out for a third time that it has been decided whether he is sure of it or not. But his brother never learned to let things go. 

“I can speak to father-”

Faramir scoffs, turning around to face him fully. “You will do no such thing.” The last thing he needs is for his father think that he put Boromir up to something like that. 

Boromir glares at him, though it is clearly coming from a place of concern. His brother had never excelled at expressing his emotions. “I merely worry about-”

“Me. You worry about me and you need to stop.” Faramir places a hand on his brother's shoulder. “I am not a child anymore, Boromir. I can handle a diplomatic mission to our _allied_ kingdom. And if I cannot, then what kind of Captain will I be?” 

Boromir scowls, shrugging him off. He crosses his arms across his broad chest. “I never said you were a child, but I would not see you hurt. Father says the Northerners are uncivilized and discourteous. We do not even truly need this treaty, Rohan could easily supply us.”

Faramir turns his attention back to his horse. “Perhaps we should not rely on Rohan for everything.” He doesn’t bother to explain that their father likely only agreed to this mission because it was expected of him to give Faramir something to do. He doesn’t care about the treaty, not really. That’s why he gave it to Faramir. 

Boromir leans against the post across from him, his eyes dark. He isn’t used to being so denied. “I would go with you, if he would give me leave.” 

“Well he won’t,” Faramir says, glancing over at him. “I admit brother, as much as I would prefer you to see the north with me, this may be good for you.” Boromir frowns over at him, not understanding. “I believe this is the first time father has allowed me to do something and not you, maybe it will teach you some humility,” he says, grinning. 

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else though, because then he’s being tackled to the ground, right into the hay stack, both of them laughing uproariously and scaring the horses. They end up covered in hay and bruised all over, presenting themselves most unbecomingly to the rest of Gondor. However in Faramir’s opinion it is worth the stern words from his father to be assured of his brother’s understanding and acceptance of his choices. 

The journey is relatively smooth, and only a few short months later and Faramir is standing in front a King in a region he’d only ever read about in the context of the tale of Smaug, the last Great Dragon of Middle Earth. When his father had mentioned that the Northmen were giving him trouble with a deal, Faramir offered to go, trying not to seem too eager for he had learned long ago that wanting something from Denethor was the quickest way not to get it. His father was quick to be rid of him, not knowing that he was sending him straight to where he most wished to go. 

He set out excited at the prospect of seeing Dale, the reconstructed dream city of his childhood fantasies. It had always seemed a mythic place to Faramir in his books, on the footsteps of the great mountain and the home of the Dragon. When he finally arrives he realizes that it still is, because surely the King cannot be a mere man. 

“Welcome Faramir, son of Denethor.” 

Faramir kneels in front of King Brand, following a courtesy he’d only ever read about. No one kneels for the Stewards after all. 

He notices immediately that the King wears almost no adornments, save for the few required indications of his station. The King is a harsh looking man, reflecting the landscape around them. Dark of hair and eyes, almost black, huge and imposing, all corded muscle under stark black clothes. His hair is somewhat shorter than what Faramir would consider regal, and is shot with grey at the temples, though his face has only a few lines. The hard set of his jaw and sharpness of his eyes tell Faramir immediately that this is not a man to be trifled with. 

“Thank you, your Grace. My father sends his regrets for not-”

“Bothering to deal with a lesser Kingdom himself? He’s never done so for the likes of us before, so why would this time be any different?” Brand asks, not smiling. Faramir feels his eyes go wide, and finds that he doesn’t know what to say. Luckily for him, the King waves him off. 

“Oh do stand up and just tell me what you came for, _child._ ” 

Faramir gets to his feet, dumbfounded. He wants to look over to his retainer, but knows that if he breaks eye contact with this man, he will never have his deal. Instead, he simply nods. “Yes, your Grace. Of course I will not waste your time with trivial matters.” 

King Brand smiles at him then, showing his teeth. The gesture is cold and hard, and Faramir has to fight the urge to rock back a step. “I doubt that. Still, let us begin.”


	2. Chapter 2

TA 3020 

Faramir spends the rest of the day in conversation with the new King Bard and a representative from Erebor, discussing the potential for a closer partnership between their respective kingdoms. As allies, and ones months away from each other, it is unlikely that they’ll run into many problems, but there are still negotiations to be settled. Faramir outlines the wishes of his King, that they might trade together and support each other in times of war as two equal kingdoms of men. 

King Bard the second seems accommodating and wisely cautious where his father King Brand had been stony and blatantly aggressive. He agrees to nothing with certainty except for the trading agreements. An honest, straightforward man who speaks with none of the flair and simpering of some of the court members of Gondor. He has a similar bearing to Eomer of Rohan, and Faramir decides that he likes him within the first few minutes of their negotiations. 

He also has a dragon embroidered on his tunic, which catches Faramir’s attention almost immediately, reminding him of Bard’s epic heritage. Direct descendent of the man who slew Smaug the Terrible with a single shot, the first reinstated King of Dale. It’s a wondrous story, and the reason Faramir first volunteered to come to Dale the first time. 

“Does the dragon festival still occur?” Faramir asks when they’ve concluded official business and are walking together towards the tall wooden doors. He would have never dared to be so familiar with Brand, but he is older now, no longer the child scared of both their fathers. 

Bard looks over at him sharply, visibly surprised. “Aye, that it does. Though I suspect that this year it will be late, and a rather more humble affair due to the rebuilding. Have you attended it?” 

Faramir allows himself an unguarded smile. “I saw it once, twenty years ago when I came to negotiate a much smaller trade arrangement. It was very impressive,” he says, trying to keep any overt excitement out of his voice, but catches Bard watching him with an amused expression anyway. 

Bard nods, looking pleased as they step through the doorway. “Yes, I believe I remember that particular festival. One of our better ones, though if I recall correctly, the Bard I in the dragon slaying reenactment that year tripped and fell into the lake.” 

Faramir smiles wider, letting himself relax. “Yes he did, quite spectacularly. I do believe the dragon won that round.” 

“Well _Bard_ certainly had a nasty set of bruises in any case, and worst of all injured pride, which can quite damaging for a fifteen year old.” Faramir’s eyes go wide at the implication and he can’t quite stifle his laugh. Luckily Bard laughs with him, slapping him on the back. 

“Not many people can laugh freely with Kings, and not many Southerners have bothered to attend Northern festivals. I can see why your new King sent you, Faramir of the White City.” 

Faramir inclines his head humbly. “In a land now with new Kings in nearly every seat of men, I believe we have a chance to start again and form closer ties than ever.”

Bard nods. “A new start. I won’t say that I never resented Gondor for looking down on us. Don’t deny it, it’s in the past.” 

Faramir can’t help but agree. His father’s distaste for the Northmen had been plain, as it had been for Rohan and every other realm or people not bearing the sigil of the White Tree. 

Bard turns, looking out over his city, which is settling in for the night. “I will send one of my advisors back with you to Minas Tirith to deliver my personal regards and continue negotiations further. I’m sure, given that I have extended the courtesy, that King Elessar will not take offense at my sending an advisor in my stead?”

Faramir smiles. “I cannot imagine that he would. A King must attend his own people first of all.” 

“Good. Perhaps in a few years we will be able meet in person, after we have secured our own lands and looked to our people. I will be honest with you, though I requested his presence, if King Aragorn had come himself I would have seriously questioned his abilities as a leader. Many do, as I’m sure you’re aware, after his years of wandering. But instead he sends you,” he says, turning to look at Faramir. 

Faramir meets the other man’s eyes, which in that moment seem much the same as his father’s before him. The hardness of iron dancing within calm waters. Bard too smiles with his eyes when he speaks. 

Bard looks away and continues. “A smart King knows how to delegate, not just to fight battles and look good in armor. To _lead_ rather than to simply sit upon a gilded throne. This King of the reunited kingdom seems to me to be an astute man, and a worthy partner for the North. Tell him that.” 

Faramir nods, smirking. “I will, and I will also promise not to tell him of his partner in the North falling into the lake twenty years ago whilst trying to slay a kite.” 

Bard stares at him, face frozen in shock for a split second before leaning back to give a hearty laugh. They stand together in good faith for a few minutes more, the descendent of another Bard, the dragon slayer, and the soldier turned Prince who as a child dreamt about riding them far away from home. 

***

TA 2999

It's late into the night and under the dancing lights of the Dragon Festival, Esgaroth and Dale are both glittering wonders. It’s an interesting practice in Faramir’s opinion, to share a festival between cities in this way. Though Minas Tirith and Osgiliath often celebrate the same holiday at the same time, they do not usually do so in such a joint manner. 

For Dale, Dragon’s Day had begun at dawn with the sounding of trumpets and a town-wide cold breakfast in the city square and adjacent streets where all eat together on the same level, even the King. It’s a quiet, reflective affair, and not at all what he had expected. 

When Faramir asked the him about it, one of King Brand's advisors had told him that Bard the Bowman started the practice to give honor for lives sacrificed and to signify their shared worth and dignity in the face of the Dragon’s threat. For Bard had not started as a King after all, but a mere bargeman, and had apparently wanted to show that he was a Leader and not a ‘Master’.

“I see,” Faramir says, polite as always, though he is not so sure that he does. A King’s place is above the masses, how else will they understand the difference? But he puts their strange ways from his mind in order to better enjoy the celebration to come. 

From then the festivities had moved from somber remembrance to a more traditional celebration. Faramir spends the day participating in dance, laughter, and conversation. He learns much about the people and customs of his Northern cousins, and even gets the chance to spend some time with strange Dwarven representatives from Erebor. The feast is held in Esgaroth on the Lake, sister-city to Dale and site of the Second Attack and Defeat of the Worm. 

The festival is wonderful, and Faramir soaks up as much of the revelry as he is able. He truly wishes for the first time that evening that his brother could have been there to share it with him, instead of simply enjoying his independence. Boromir would have loved it, and he would have lent Faramir some of his strength. 

Treating with Brand has been more difficult than Faramir ever imagined from what his father had told him of the supposedly limited intelligence of the men of the North. However, he is beginning to understand that his father’s opinion of them may well be driven by a jealousy of Brand’s position as King, when he, and more importantly Boromir, will only ever be the stewards. The Northmen aren’t dull savages, they are honorable men in their own right. 

Faramir watches the fireworks display, and considers the possibility of his father not being right in all things. He wonders what that means for him, but he doesn’t particularly want to think about his father when he’s finally getting a chance to see the city he’d always read and dreamed about. 

Were he not a representative of the Stewardship, he might attempt to sneak up the mountain to see where the dragon lay, where he lived, but he knows he cannot. After the feast is finished and the party has begun in earnest, he resolves instead to go to the lake where Smaug died. The failed reenactment of the slaying had been amusing in its own right when the Bard lookalike fell into the water, but the people were suspicious enough not to perform it where the beast’s bones actually lay, and so he had not actually seen the water that holds Smaug still. 

He weaves through the streets, moving around the crowds of people with firelight glinting off their red and black dragon’s faces. Faramir has a painted face too, with flames licking up his cheek. The woman who had put them there told him that they color themselves to match the monster that had terrorized their ancestors to prove that they are no longer afraid. 

If Boromir were here, he would surely have refused and Faramir might have as well just to follow his example and avoid embarrassment. But Boromir is not here, and tonight Faramir is a Dragon. 

The path to the old sections of Lake Town is old, worn, and clearly not well-travelled. It is only by the light of the moon that Faramir finds his way in the dark at all. Eventually he makes it to the ruins, which are really no more than suggestions of a long lost settlement at this point. Faramir had seen picture in his books, and knew that most of Lake Town had been build over the water on tall stilts in any case, and had washed away long ago. Now there stands a simple statue of Bard, black arrow in hand, and a single dock stretching out into the dark water. 

Faramir walks slowly along the path, heading out into the center of the lake and looking down into its depths. He can’t see anything, but imagines the shine off of the gems of Smaug’s red armor, the glint of the sun on his teeth. 

“Hello, my old friend,” he murmurs, still looking and not finding anything. It's too dark. “Still dead down there?” 

He pauses on the shore and smiles, straining to see into the depths of the water, but all he can see is the shadow of his own reflection. “Would that I could have seen you in your prime…” he murmurs, aware of how foolish the notion is but unable to not mean it. Smaug would have destroyed him without a second thought, if he even bothered to kill him at all. 

“Still…” Faramir says, quietly. “You helped me when I was a child. It was nice knowing you.” 

“Speaking to the Dragon’s Spirit, boy?” 

Faramir jumps so badly he nearly falls into the water, and whirls around, heart pounding. King Brand is standing before him, regarding him sternly. “You do not seem drunk.” 

Faramir blinks. After two week, he would have thought that he was now immune to the King’s gruff manner. Apparently not. “I- no sir. I would not think of bringing shame upon my house by-”

“And what of _my_ house? Would you dishonor me by refusing my ale?”

Faramir frowns, coming to the sudden realization that Brand is mocking him, or testing him. He straightens his back. “Of course not sir, but consider that I can do both. Just because I am not drunk does not necessarily mean that I have had nothing to drink. I do not know how it is in the North, but in Gondor, we are taught how to _hold_ our drink.” 

Brand stares at him, face blank, and in that second Faramir seriously considers jumping into the lake and following his childhood obsession to the watery grave. But then Brand laughs and motions him over to the dock and Faramir feels a good deal of the tension leave the air. 

“You have spirit, son of Gondor. No doubt you will make your country proud one day, though you will have to learn to watch you mouth around Kings,” he says, with only a little malice. 

Faramir doesn’t know if he should thank him or challenge him again. Eventually, he decides to meet courtesy halfway. “Your Grace, if I may ask, what brings you out to the lake in the middle of the festivities?” 

Brand’s eyes seem to flash as he turns to look back at Faramir. For a moment, Faramir doubts that he will even respond, but then he turns back towards the lake and breathes deeply. “Where does your family come from?”

Faramir blinks, caught off guard. “We have been the Stewards of Gondor for twenty five generations.” 

“And before that?” 

“Before, we were the House of Hurin, and lived in our ancestral lands in Ithilien.”

“Which Gondor now controls. Though I suppose that considering the fact that your father controls Gondor renders that point rather irrelevant doesn’t it.” 

Faramir resists the urge to frown. “Yes, sir, I suppose that it does.”

King Brand nods, gazing into the dark water. “My family lived under the threat of the dragon Smaug for one hundred and seventy one years. People often forget that when telling the tale, if they tell it at all. Thorin Oakenshield and his companions make a far better story, and the ‘needy men’ of Lake Town receive only a passing mention...” 

“And yet everyone knows Bard the Bowman,” Faramir says, then snaps his mouth shut, berating himself for the interruption. Brand gives him a sharp look. 

“Yes. The heroism of my grandfather will go down in history, I’m sure. Great deeds always do.” There’s a note in his voice that Faramir can’t place, a certain irony he doesn’t understand. Of course it’s the great deeds that are remembered, what else would suffice?

They stands in silence, watching the reflective surface of the still water under the moonlight until Brand speaks again, voice softer and more open than Faramir is used to hearing it. 

“To remind myself.” 

Faramir starts, looking over at the King sharply. “Pardon-”

“You asked me what brought me here.” He shifts his gaze up to the sky, towards the Lonely Mountain. “I come every year to remind myself of how heroism fades. Every year the story of Bard is told less and less often. There will come a day when it is never told again.” He makes a sweeping motion over the water. “The great beast lies dead at the bottom of this lake, as Bard the Bowman lies dead in the crypts. Is it his statue that lives on? His legacy?”

Faramir watches him, and sincerely hopes that he isn’t expecting an answer. He is suddenly and acutely unsure if he truly knows anything at all. Perhaps all he has to share are old dragon stories. Nothing but dusty books and dream clouds. 

Brand laughs. “Or perhaps it is the tale itself, hmm? The great deed and the story that goes with it. Tell me Faramir, do you really believe that my grandfather took down the Smaug with a single shot?” 

“I- that is what they say, to be sure. Though of course tales are often exaggerated for...effect,” he says, not wanting to give offense to Brand’s house. 

Brand laughs again, turning to face the statue of Bard. “Yes, quite so. For that, son of Gondor, I’ll let you in on a secret. It isn’t the great deeds that define us, as ruler or as ordinary men, but our everyday courage. It is the strength of a people, not just the raw might of their Kings that leaves the legacy.” 

Faramir stares at this king, this man, with no idea what to say. He finds that he is unsure of his opinion on the matter, let alone his response. For surely it cannot be that great deeds are irrelevant. Otherwise they would not have been deemed great. 

He looks down at the water again, and thinks about the bones, the remains of the Last Great Dragon. The Smaug in Faramir’s imagination that was such an active part of his childhood from miles away and beyond the grave lives on to be sure, but what becomes of it when he too is gone? He doesn’t know, and water has no answers for him. 

“I would think-” Faramir begins, but then stops to check that it is indeed his place to speak. Brand nods. “I would think that great deeds are so remembered because they are indeed worthy, and easily remembered.”

“Oh yes?” Brand asks, challenging. 

“Yes,” Faramir answers, trying to sound resolute. “However, I have seen mothers with the inner strength and resolve of a warrior, and old farmers with the wisdom of a wizard. Opportunity to show greatness in some select few does not mean that it does not exist in others.” 

Brand studies him, considering. “You suggest that greatness can be found within common folk as much as in the high born.” 

Faramir has to consciously restrain himself from saying ‘I believe so.’ 

“Yes,” he replies instead, and earns Brand's nod again.

The King turns his face towards the sky. “I see. You are less dim then I originally thought, though you still lack the conviction needed in a ruler. And perhaps you should consider the fact that maybe it isn’t that greatness can come from the everyday aspects of life, but rather it is born from it.” 

Faramir stares at him, forgetting his respect and lessons as the King looks back down at him. He raises a hand. “Now go, Faramir son of Denethor. I have need of this lake tonight greater than yours.” 

“Yes, sir.” But Brand is already walking away from him, down the dock. 

Faramir takes one last look at the still water and leaves, thinking that he’ll never see it again.


	3. Chapter 3

TA 3020

After the first successful day of negotiations, Faramir remains in Dale on orders from his King for two months, in and out of talks with the two Kings in the North. He gets to know the cities, Dale and Erebor both. The differences are striking, both in terms of design and relative levels of destruction. Erebor, safe deep within the keep of the mountain, is damaged only on the exterior and in the outermost rooms. Compared to the devastation in Dale, Erebor seems virtually untouched. Wandering through it’s inner halls, one would barely know that a war had raged outside the gates not even a year ago. 

His guide in the mountain is of course Gimli, who had returned to his home city three day before with Legolas ever by his side, taking the tour again to make Faramir feel less ridiculous being surrounded by large groups of dwarves who come up to his elbow and constantly glare up at him. Gimli spends nearly every moment of the tour regaling him with tales of Dwarven valor and the history of Erebor. Many of them Faramir had heard before, being as interested in the region as he was when he was young. Legolas, who has clearly heard all of the stories before, listens with an all-suffering expression Faramir finds almost as amusing as the stories themselves. 

“And here-” Gimli says as they enter a great room, spreading his arms dramatically. “Is where the beast slept until Bilbo Baggins rousted him out with the specific help of Balin- my cousin.”

Legolas shoots him a look of sympathy that Faramir doesn’t understand. He instead turns his attention to the room, drinking it in eagerly. It is as grand as Gimli made it out to be, with the tallest ceilings Faramir has ever seen. Much to his disappointment, he had not been granted entrance to the Lonely Mountain on his first visit to the North, back when he had been seventeen and eager to lay eyes and hands on the very stone Smaug had made into his nest. He had wanted to see where the dragon slept, where he had hoarded his treasure and loomed over the city in silent threat. Instead Faramir saw his watery grave, and received life lessons from a King. 

“I thought that it was the treasure room?” Faramir asks, looking around at the mostly empty space. Pure shafts of light cut through the space at strategic points, illuminating the space. Years ago they must have made the gold glow. 

Gimli nods to a passing dwarf. “Aye it was, but after the drake was rousted King Dain saw fit to institute a more...secure method of storage. Now it is most often used as a market space or public meeting hall.” 

Legolas laughs, the high clear sound earning him a few pointedly dirty looks from the dwarves in the area, which he steadfastly ignores. “You mean to say that keeping all the wealth of a kingdom lying about in huge piles is not a sound strategy? What an idea. Thank goodness _someone_ finally figured that out.” 

Gimli growls, glaring up at him, but it is clearly not seriously meant, Faramir thinks as the two descend into good natured banter, forgetting him entirely. He turns his attention back to the room. It quite lives up to his imagination, though he can’t say he devoted as much thought to the room itself than he did to the beast. He finds he can easily picture Smaug laying on the very stones they stand on now. The hall is almost threatening in its immensity, and Faramir feels like a child walking in his dreams again. He smiles to himself and turns his attention back to Gimli who has regained his excitement for showing off his home. 

“And this chamber- oh! To see _this_ hall in the midst of Durin’s celebrations! A sight to see my lads, let me tell you-” Gimli continues, needing no prompting as they continue on their way through the large and impressive room. Faramir and Legolas share an amused look and follow him in the wake of his excitement. Faramir can’t help that stab of nostalgia and compare him to Boromir, who was almost as vocal about his love for loved Minas Tirith as Gimli for Erebor. 

Many hours later, after Faramir has finished with his audience with the new Dwarf king and given all the proper accordances of respect, he wanders through the halls alone, admiring the artistry and detail of the city. It is so different from Minas Tirith, despite the similarities in the stone worked designs. His city has some distinctly elf-inspired designs which are not present in Erebor. He takes his time on his way back to the great hall, stopping to converse with whomever addresses him, answering the questions about the world of men for the wide-eyed little dwarrows who had probably seen even less of the world than Faramir had at their age. 

The sun had begun to set by the time he reaches the Dragon’s room again, which still contains some few remaining citizens engaged in conversation, some more civil than others. He looks around with curiosity and wonders about their positions, which were the shopkeepers and which the miners? The only clear distinctions he can discern are the sharp uniforms of the city guard, and the occasional gown of what must be a noble lady, elegantly braided beards and all. 

However, he has a self-imposed mission to complete, so Faramir makes his way around the edge of the room, ducking in and out of every small corridor he’s allowed into that seem to lead everywhere and anywhere. Whatever design Erebor follows Faramir finds he can’t understand. He wanders through them all, from small chambers containing historical relics watched by suspicious guards to shortcuts to areas Faramir would have sworn were significantly farther away. 

He reemerges from the last passage having made the entire circuit around the great room, feeling more curious than ever. “Perhaps it is invisible after all...” he murmurs, touching a wall absently and catching the eye of a severe and unimpressed looking guard by the main doors. He is tall for a dwarf, though visibly aged with his white hair and beard, and Faramir figures that he was likely as good a helper as he was going to get. 

The guard eyes him suspiciously as Faramir approaches even though he makes sure to keep his face and posture as neutral as possible. “Excuse me, may I ask you a question about the hall?” Faramir asks, keeping his hand at his sides and his tone respectful. 

“Yes,” the guard says with all the famed directness of his people. Faramir smiles, wondering not for the first time if the harsh reputation and demeanor of the Northmen was in part a direct consequence of their close relationship with the powerful, but harsh seeming kingdom of the dwarves. 

Faramir drops the smile at the dwarf’s glare. “Where is the hidden passage that Bilbo Baggins used to enter this room?”

The guard nods over to the opposite wall. “It used to be over there.” 

Faramir blinks. “Used to be?” 

“Yes,” the Dwarf says, sounding utterly bored. “It was filled and the exterior refortified.” 

“Wha-” Faramir flounders, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. “But, it’s history! It’s part of the legacy of the re-taking of Erebor!” 

The guard shrugs. “It was a security threat.” 

Faramir opens his mouth, then closes again, realizing that he is forgetting himself and is hardly presenting himself well as an envoy of the White City at the moment. But he just can’t fathom the idea that they just _destroyed_ the secret tunnel. The dwarf simply looks up at him with an impassive expression, hands curled around a large battle axe. 

“I- forgive me, sir, I just do not think I could understand the decision,” Faramir says, doing his best at attempting diplomacy despite his growing dismay. The dwarf’s bored look morphs into a glare, and he leans forward over the end of his axe. 

“Well. Considering that I’m the dwarf that ordered the change, you might consider making more of an effort, _man._ ” 

Faramir’s eyes go wide and he is only stopped from making a further fool of himself by the gentle huff of musical laughter that comes from behind him. 

“Torturing the guests again are we, master Dwalin?” 

Faramir turns to see Legolas standing right behind him, looking comically tall and completely out of place in the great hall with his forest green tunic and the amused smile curving his lips. The few remaining dwarves go out of their way to avoid him on their way out of the room. He glances over and winks at Faramir, who shoots him a grateful look in return. 

The guard turns his sharp eyed suspicion on the newcomer. “Prince Legolas,” he sounds almost pained at delivering the title, which the elf takes in stride as he comes to stand between the two. Not for the first time, Faramir is struck by his otherworldly beauty, like a still cool lake, isolating in its perfection. 

Legolas offers him a friendly smile, which Faramir returns gratefully. “Prince Faramir, this is Dwalin son of Fundin, Captain of the City Guard,” Legolas says, gesturing over to him. Faramir inclines his head respectfully and Dwalin does the same, albeit more grudgingly. 

Tense silence descends, and Faramir glances over to Legolas, who is looking nonplussed as usual. “Where is Gimli?” he asks, mainly just to have something to talk about. 

Legolas smirks, no doubt acutely aware of the awkward mood. “With his kin. They have missed him greatly.” 

Faramir nods and intentionally avoids thinking of his own family. “Of course,” he glances back over at Dwalin, who has stopped paying attention to them entirely despite their closeness to him. “Shall we…?”

Legolas smiles, understanding. “Yes. Perhaps I can show you some things, though I won’t be as capable a guide as Captain Dwalin, surely.” 

Laughing, Faramir falls into step with the elf, almost missing Dwalin’s huff of disdain. 

***

TA 2999

On his last day in Dale Faramir doesn’t see King Brand at all. Instead he deals briefly with one of the King’s advisors, has a modest breakfast, and sets out for Gondor before the sun has even fully risen. After over three months in Brand’s court the lack of pomp for his departure, or for anything at all, has ceased to bother him. It is the way of the North. Boromir would have been in a rage at the perceived slight, but Faramir understands. The King is a busy man, Dale is a hardworking city. There is no room for sentimentality here. 

“Faramir?” 

He looks up and meets the gaze of Dervor, one of the members of his party and a trusted friend. Other than Boromir, most people are too scared of displeasing Denethor to bother befriending Faramir, but Dervor pays little heed to such things. Dervor looks him over with amusement. “Drifting, are you?” 

Faramir laughs a bit self-consciously as he puts the finishing touches on the last document he is responsible for. If he had known diplomacy had involved so much paperwork he might never have volunteered. “My apologies, I was lost in thought.” 

“So I can see.” Dervor smiles good-naturedly. “I expect I should forgive you though, given the beast of a task you were charged with. I hear that the King hardly let you rest.” 

“It was not nearly so bad as that,” Faramir answers, thinking back to his final conversation with the King the day before, though he had not known at the time that it was to be their last. Brand had summoned him to a lesser chamber adjacent to the throne room, sitting in a high backed chair of dark wood surrounded by papers of all sorts on the table in front of him. Faramir waited, but the King did not look up for several minutes. 

He let his gaze wander, taking in the room. It was austere, like its master, but it contained one large decorative item, a painting of the landscape around Dale, done in dark colors. Faramir strained to pick out the details, to see if it was indeed the dragon that sat in the sky in the background, but then Brand called for him.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the seat by the table. Faramir took it, sitting with his back ramrod straight and making sure to meet Brand’s eyes without hesitation. Brand regarded him silently for a moment before tapping the papers in front of him. “I have signed the treaty. You may tell your father that King Brand sends his regards, and hopes that we can remain in...partnership,” he said, mouth curling into a sneer. It was no secret that Denethor spoke of Brand as an inferior, sometimes even publicly, despite his elevated rank. 

Faramir nodded, calmly. “I will. The council will be very pleased, my brother especially. He has expressed on many occasions a desire to fortify bonds with all free kingdoms of men.” _And one day he will be in charge, when my father is gone,_ Faramir thought, knowing that he didn't need to say it out loud for Brand to hear it in his words.

Brand did not disappoint, smirking as he regarded Faramir. “How diplomatic.” He unceremoniously rolled and stamped the scroll. “That is it then, Faramir son of Denethor. Know that you have managed to impress me in some small way, which most men do not come close to doing. I look forward to the renewed relationship between our lands. May you have good fortune on the road. It is a dangerous world we live in.” 

And with that, Faramir understood that he was dismissed. He accepted the scroll and stood, feeling suddenly unsure. Should there not be more? 

Brand did not look up again, apparently absorbed in his work, so Faramir saw himself out. As he passed through the door, he could not resist glancing back at the King one last time, and saw that he had gone very far away, staring at the painting on the opposite wall. Faramir left him to it. 

He spent the rest of that day in preparations for his departure, both logistical and mental, planning out everything he would say about the experience to his father beforehand. He had no time to notice that he never got the chance to tell the King...something. Faramir was not exactly sure what. For that reason, it was probably for the best that he lost his chance, for the King was not one to suffer fools. 

Faramir pulls himself back to reality and smiles at Dervor. “Of course, I am glad to be going home.” It was not a lie, but he could not say that he was entirely happy to be leaving either. 

Dervor gives him an amused look, obviously of Faramir’s tumultuous relationship with his father. “Of course,” he mimics. “Your brother will rejoice in seeing you again.” 

“As I will him,” Faramir says, and this time his smile is genuine.


	4. Chapter 4

TA 3020

“It is a shame that we will miss the Dragon Festival,” Legolas comments absently as they pack away the plans for the settlements in Ithilien for the day. Faramir runs his fingertips across the map, eying the planned location for his and Eowyn’s future home. With Bard II often busy and Gimli spending most of his time in the mountain with his kin, he and Legolas had taken to setting down their respective plans for their new home together in their free time. 

Faramir glances over at him from across the table. “Yes, it truly is. Have you attended one before? It is magnificent.” He smiles, remembering his painted face and grand ideas from long ago. 

Legolas gives him the serene smile that Faramir has come to associate with the elves. “Yes, I attended the very first and many others after.” 

Faramir blinks, momentarily caught off guard. _The first._

“Of course,” he says, considering the implications. Aragorn may be used to dealing with elves, but Faramir is not. The concept of immortality remains as foreign to him as peace once was, having grown up in the shadow of Mordor. An elusive, near incomprehensible idea suddenly made a reality. 

Legolas takes it in stride, no doubt as used to men as Aragorn is to elves by now. “I hear you knew King Brand? I admit that though I knew Bard the first quite well and his son King Bain, I never had the opportunity to meet his grandson.” 

“Yes, I knew him. He was a good King,” Faramir says, though he does not offer more, still unsure after all these years of how to describe the complex man.

Legolas simply nods. “As was Bard. A man of honor, and humble. He was an excellent leader for his people.”

“Like Aragorn?” 

Legolas stops his packing and turns to him, considering. “In a way. Though I would say he was more akin to your brother. Certainly he was more inclined to speak his mind, and to make himself heard. He was very passionate.” 

Faramir nods, trying to reign in his emotions at the mention of his brother. He had avoided the subject so far with everyone, and though he would be inclined to deny it, Faramir has to admit privately that he carries some bitterness that this elf, then a stranger, was one of the last to see his brother alive while Faramir was miles away. “That...certainly sounds like him.” 

Legolas opens his mouth, no doubt to say something kind, but Faramir finds himself interrupting him. “I believe that I must prepare for my next meeting with King Bard, if you will excuse me.” He turns away to leave before Legolas can say more, and escapes from the sympathy he sees in the elf’s eyes. 

He makes his way through the halls of the great house that serves at the seat of the King, seeking solitude. Some of the people he passes give him curious looks, though not as many as they did the first time he came here. Deciding to take a walk and clear his head, he deposits his work in his chambers. There is no need to change into clothes he can go exploring in, since the standard of dress had remained just as casual as it had been the last time Faramir visited. Kings in leather jerkins and ladies with thier skirts rolled up. He glances at himself in the mirror and wonders if Aragorn will keeps the decadence of court the same as it ever was or if he will change it the way he has already changed many other things by his very existence. 

“Although,” he murmurs to himself. “I don’t suppose Lady Arwen would enjoy that.” 

Smiling now as he leaves the room, he thinks of his own Lady. She would surely appreciate the utilitarian lifestyle the Northerners employ, practical as she is. Eowyn has little patience for extravagance of any kind. As he walks, his amusement fades into a deep seated loneliness and longing for her. He wishes, not for the first time, that she had come with him, but she has duties to her people that had to be attended to. Practical, dutiful, beautiful, brave, her virtues were seemingly endless. 

Deliberately putting the longing from his mind, he focuses instead on finding something of worth to bring her from the city. As she is not a material lady by any means, Faramir has found himself with the difficult task of finding a gift for her she would truly appreciate, for she would not appreciate a useless trinket. It was a task he had so far failed at accomplishing, and not for lack of trying. 

He makes his way through the streets, not as crowded or nicely maintained as they once were but still active with the movements of a kingdom, the majority of their faces set with the same determination, though many spare Faramir a friendly glance. The market is worse for the wear, but still open and Faramir refocuses himself on his task. 

“Lad!” 

Faramir turns on instinct to see Gimli coming towards him. He smiles at being referred to as ‘lad’ at seven and thirty years. Although, by Dwarf reckoning, that may well be young still. 

“Gimli,” he responds, closing the distance between them in friendliness. “I thought you would be in the mountain.” 

The dwarf shrugs. “I was.” 

Faramir smiles. “Are you looking for Legolas?” 

“Not with any urgency, I was actually searching for something my mother sent me for. It wouldn’t be difficult but for the disruption to the trade routes.” He rolls his eyes dramatically, as though it was a simple matter of incompetence instead of the last consequences of war. Of course, Faramir supposes that Dwarves rarely let anything stop them from conducting business. 

Fighting down a laugh at the sight of the great war hero Gimli sent to the market by his mother, Faramir gestures to the street. “Well I believe you have come to the right place, I myself have been searching for a gift for Lady Eowyn.” 

Gimli looks up at him, eyes sharp. “I see. A wedding present?” 

Faramir smiles and looks away. “Not necessarily.” Her true wedding present will be the ancestral sword of his house, given to her as a sign that she is fully made a part of his family, and as a personal recognition from him of her status as a warrior. 

Gimli hums, considering. “When I met her, I got the impression that Lady Eowyn is not a person impressed by trinkets.” He picks up an embossed broach with a critical eye and sets it back down. 

Faramir raises an eyebrow at his astute perception. “Indeed she is not. If I cannot find anything I think will be of value to her, I will not get her anything at all.” 

“When is your wedding?” Gimli asks, leaning forward to examine some spices in another market stall. 

“Soon,” Faramir answers. Hopefully, very soon. 

“Good,” Gimli says as he reaches for one of the spice bottles. “Ah. Here we are. Is this the best you have?” 

He spends the next several minutes harassing the dwarf vendor as Faramir looks on in amusement. The haggling soon takes on the edge of a fight, though no one in the immediate vicinity seems terribly concerned. 

He takes his leave from Gimli, heading down the winding paths that lead away from the city. He walks slowly, careful not to stray out of relatively safe territory, though he always carries a knife when he goes out no matter how safe the streets. His feet carry him to the shores of the lake and farther, down the shore until he comes upon the statue of Bard the First and the dock he had once stood on to converse with a King. 

On impulse, Faramir walks down the dock and towards the water that houses Smaug’s bones. It looks vastly different in the daytime, or perhaps the difference he sees is due to the unreliable filter of memory. He pauses about halfway down. Though he hadn’t been specifically avoiding it, Faramir had not intended to visit this place again. 

The water is clear and still, but he can’t see anything in it. “Hello, old friend,” he says, copying his own words from so long ago, when he didn’t understand what Brand meant about legacy. When he barely understood anything at all. 

_It isn’t that greatness can come from the everyday aspects of life, but rather it is born from it._

All Denethor had ever cared for was his legacy. The reputation of the family. What would be written. 

When he spoke to Gandalf about his father’s death, Gandalf told him that Denethor’s distress stemmed mainly from the reality that his line had ended. Faramir wishes he could say that it surprised him, but he knows now that Denethor never cared for him, or even for Boromir, not truly. He loved the idea of his perfect first born son, refusing to see any flaw or discontent in the man. Where Faramir was made into the disappointment, Boromir was made into the savior, neither of them seen for who they really were. Both of them were treated horribly unfairly, Faramir can admit to that now, at least to himself and to the dead lake which holds his other secrets well enough. 

Faramir stares down into the still water, the grave of the dragon, and this time he feels nothing. “Perhaps I’ve outgrown you.” As he voices it aloud, he realizes that it’s true. The secrets hold no appeal for him now that he has someone to share them with. 

Smiling softly, he turns back to the city to find a gift for his wife, content to leave the dead behind him where they belong. 

***

TA 2999

The sight of his white city sets off such a strong feeling in Faramir he feels for a second that he might weep. It is only fear of embarrassing himself in front of the other men which allows him to prevent it. Instead, he turns to them with a smile. “Welcome home.” 

They cheer and Faramir feels a warmth spread through him that he knows will only increase as they get closer to the gates. He had felt a similar way when the scenery had begun to look familiar, and again when they entered the borders of Gondor, but seeing Minas Tirith again is something else entirely. 

They go through the secondary entrance which allows them easy access to the soldiers stables and puts them closer to their homes. The closer they got to Minas Tirith, the harder they pushed themselves to reach it, forgoing sleep to be one step closer to their families. Though strictly speaking he never should have allowed it, Faramir can’t make himself regret the decision when he sees his brother’s grinning face.

“Welcome home!” Boromir calls out from just inside the gate, looking as though he might drag Faramir down from his horse himself. “You must tell me everything.” 

Faramir grins back, jumping down from his horse. “Hello to you too brother-” Boromir cuts off his air supply with a powerful squeeze, sending Faramir into a fit of laughter. He seems to have grown another three inches in every direction in the short time Faramir had been away, less than a year! They’re attracting the attention of everyone in the square, but Faramir can’t find it in himself to care. It’s not like his father is here to chastise them in any case. 

Boromir releases him with a grin. “Tell me everything. Come, let us-” 

“I _believe_ , brother, that I am expected to make a report of my journey,” Faramir says, feeling very important and pleased with himself as he leads his horse to the stable area and hands it off to one of the young stable hands with a smile, spirits high. His father hadn’t thought Faramir would be able to succeed in this mission, and though he surely won’t get much in the way of recognition, Faramir finds that he doesn’t need it. The treaty is his, and it will benefit his city. 

Boromir makes a face. “I suppose.” He doesn’t look any more enthusiastic at the idea of seeing Denethor than Faramir feels. He wonders if, in Faramir’s absence, some of their father’s venom had been turned towards Boromir instead. It seems unlikely, but it would an interesting turn. 

“How fares the greatest city in the world?” Faramir asks, and Boromir’s face brightens as he fills him in on everything he had missed, from state matters to kitchen gossip. Little had changed, but Boromir fills him in on every detail anyway as they make their way to the highest level. 

The debriefing is a blessedly short affair and somewhat easier than previous meetings with Denethor. Tense as it always is when Faramir interacts with his father, he finds that his diplomatic skills have been vastly improved by his time in the North and that using them on Denethor is thankfully effective. Apparently stoic courtesy is what makes his father hate him the least. 

“So,” Denethor says, glancing over the contract with a critical eye. “I see that you were at least able to do what was asked of you.” 

“Yes, father,” Faramir says, choosing not to elaborate unless specifically instructed. He had considered many other things to say as he made the long walk to the council chambers, imagining the look on his father’s face that would make it worth the cost. He could square his shoulders and breathe fire if he chose to. _Perhaps now you will see how you have wasted precious resources because of your petty jealousies and prejudices, father_ or even _King Brand is a better leader than you, and a better father to me in less than a year then you will ever be_ , but he voices neither sentiment, true as they both are. Standing in front of him now, Faramir feels no need. 

The burning desire he used to have to gain his father’s approval seems to have faded into almost nothingness at some point during his exhibition, leaving a dull acceptance of his position in his father’s eyes. Somehow, it is easier to bear his gaze this way, though Denethor barely bothers to look at him. 

“Good. You are dismissed.” He sets the parchment to the side and continues ignoring Faramir. He is the same as ever, but this time Faramir pauses, considering his image. He cannot help but compare him to Brand, to imagine Brand in his place, and finds Denethor a poor substitute.

Brand may have been cold and calculating, but he was not truly malicious and he did not allow emotional entanglements cloud his judgements. While he was away, Faramir not only realized his own worth as an ambassador, but that success in Dale means that Denethor will never use him in such a way again unless in dire need. He will keep Faramir to the lowest military rank available to keep up appearances, but he will never utilize him fully as a resource. Brand would never tolerate such waste, even if it meant employing someone he hated. 

Brand is a true King, putting the needs of his people first in all things. Gondor would never be so fortunate until Boromir took his father's place. 

Resigned, Faramir takes his leave. But if the meeting with Denethor darkened Faramir’s mood in any significant way, then seeing his brother waiting for him just outside of the council door makes up for it. “Brother,” he calls out, though Boromir is already striding towards him. 

Faramir accepts Boromir’s arm around his shoulder as they walk absently away from the council chambers for more trivial pursuits, pleased to have someone to be so informal with again. 

“So!” Boromir exclaims, turning to face him. “The _North_.” 

Faramir laughs, and feels like a great sigh after holding himself so stiffly. “Yes it was quite different.” 

“Did you find your dragon then?” his brother asks, clearly teasing, but it gives Faramir pause. He thinks of the lake, of sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He thinks of power, and the wisdom needed to wield it, and he nods. 

“In truth, I think I might have.”


End file.
